


Daughter of Light

by jadzeanna



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And not in a drugs way, Can you say crossover, F/F, Idk dude the prophets work in mysterious ways, Sylvia Is Definitely Going To Make Captain, also I meant this to be shippy but then plot happened? send help, through magic mushrooms all things are possible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-06 02:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12807885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadzeanna/pseuds/jadzeanna
Summary: "She is a daughter of light, begat of darkness. I couldn't just let her die."They’re stuck in uncharted territory, dozens of light years from the Federation. They just picked up an alien of a completely unknown species. They won't be able to go home until they replenish their spore supply. And Paul Stamets is insisting the fate of the quadrant hangs in the balance.This is by far the most exciting mission Sylvia’s been on yet.Spoilers through Discovery 1x05 "Choose Your Pain" and DS9 6x06 "Sacrifice of Angels"





	1. The King's Greatest Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is anything but a normal jump.

Black alert.

Sylvia Tilly presses her eyes shut and holds her breath. It’s not much, but she always feels a little nauseated by the jumps. It was never a problem before the navigation upgrade, but seeing Lieutenant Stamets plugged in, all those needles, all that strain on his anything but frail body – the mere thought is enough to make anyone’s stomach turn.

This jump is different. They stay in black alert a little too long. When things stabilize and the klaxons stop, she can feel the moisture soaking her hair, her uniform, like she just went for a long run or got thrown in a pool. She wipes her eyes with the back of a hand, then opens them.

Her console is covered with a layer of condensation, but she can see underneath it that something isn’t right. She wipes the droplets away, squints. They’re nowhere near their original target coordinates. She wipes at the console again, brings up a map, zooms out. They’re not near the Klingon front, not near Earth. They’re in the Alpha quadrant, out past Betazed. Farther than any Federation ship has successfully gone in the past. Dozens of light years from home; weeks or months at warp six. They’re lucky the Discovery can travel much faster.

Something clatters to the floor, and Sylvia looks up to see Dr. Culber fumbling with the doors to the connection chamber. She taps in the sequence to completely disengage the spore drive and unlock the door, then walks down the steps to join him.

Lieutenant Stamets is as alright as he can ever be said to be after a jump. He sees things, in the mycelial plane. Some of the things he sees are hopeful, some omens, some unspeakable horrors, mostly the unending expanse of space. Sometimes he emerges from a jump laughing, sometimes crying. This time, he’s collapsed against the wall, murmuring about war and the fate of the quadrant. Culber and Tilly are both used to it by now.

Stamets is no longer alone in the chamber. That, they’re not so used to. A slim figure lies on the floor, motionless. By their hairstyle and dress, the figure appears to be female. By her wrinkle-free face, she appears to be young, maybe the equivalent of Sylvia’s age. By the grey pallor of her skin, the ridges on her forehead, her brow, her nose, her neck – she appears to be a species they’ve never encountered before.

Culber picks his tricorder off the ground, scans the girl. No respiration. Weak heart rate and metabolism. Grade 4 phaser burn. She needs treatment if she’s going to survive, but there’s certainly hope.

The doctor leans over to press a kiss to his boyfriend’s forehead. Paul starts giggling. It’s absurd, really, and Hugh lets himself smile fondly at him for just a moment, but no longer. He looks up at Tilly, murmurs a quick, “take care of him, okay? You know the drill.”

She nods solemnly and steps over the alien girl to kneel by Stamets’ side, taking his hand in hers, pressing a finger to his wrist to monitor his pulse.

Culber pulls out his communicator and lifts the girl’s shoulders off the ground. His voice shakes slightly, its volume louder than necessary in the room whose quiet is only marred by Paul’s ragged breathing, the omnipresent hum of machinery, and the occasional drip of water off some saturated surface. “Transporter room one, this is Dr. Culber. We have a medical emergency. Two for site to site transport to sick bay, stat.”

The air feels sharp, static. The smell of ozone envelops the doctor and the girl, and they shimmer and fade. Seconds later, Sylvia and Lieutenant Stamets are alone.

After a jump, Stamets’ heart rate spikes, and is relatively slow to recover, but a fair chunk of time has transpired, and now his heart rate is merely fast, like that of someone taking a brisk walk. Sylvia’s is faster.

First Contact is the Federation’s most important diplomatic function. For Starfleet personnel, it borders on sacred. Every command-track cadet dreams of serving on an exploratory ship like the Enterprise. In another world, the Discovery would have been one of those, and Tilly would have found herself the luckiest cadet in the quadrant, had not the war broken out. She’s still lucky. It’s still the opportunity of a lifetime. But she isn’t expecting first contact missions anymore. And yet, one just dropped itself at her commanding officer’s feet.

“These people are ancient,” Stamets mutters.

Tilly almost doesn’t hear him, but how often do his ramblings contain any useful content anyway? She responds with a noncommital “hm,” already thinking at a breakneck pace about how this could proceed, how she would frame her role in this undeniably historic moment. And she lets Stamets talk.

“There’s a lot of time. The mycelia are so old here, Tilly. Maybe even forever. They’re so old,” he pauses to take a shaky breath, “there’s so much horror here. You see, this spot, this is the center. But it’s also a battlefield. She was dying, and she was there - or, she will be. I couldn’t let her die, Tilly. She’s a key. She’s a chosen one. She’s the king’s greatest weakness. They need her to win the war.”

“Against the Klingons?” Tilly replies absentmindedly, but now she's listening.

He grabs her arm with both hands. “No. Not the Klingons. That war is now. This is later. The Klingons aren’t just enemies, but the Dominion, they are. They want to destroy us. All of us. Most of all, her.”

Tilly doesn’t know what to think, so she smiles nervously, leans back from him. “Lieutenant, you’re scaring me.”

“Don’t be afraid, Tilly. We’re all long since dead and gone.”

She’s even more afraid. She remembers ancient history texts that speak of oracles muttering mysterious, senseless prophecies after spiritual experiences. Stamets is always like this after a jump: senseless. This is the first time she’s considered his ramblings to be anything more.

_This spot. This is the center. But it’s also a battlefield._

_She’s a key. She’s a chosen one. She’s the king’s greatest weakness._

Sylvia knows only that she needs more information, before Stamets recovers too fully to provide it. “Who is she?”

“She is a daughter of light, begat of darkness.” He says it with the same tone one might say ‘duh’ to a friend.

Sylvia cocks an eyebrow, suspicious. “And she’s necessary, for the light to win?”

He meets her eyes, tightens his grip on her arm. “She’s _essential_.”

Sylvia breathes deeply, tries to process some of this – any of this. It doesn’t make sense, really. Michael would probably tell her she’s crazy for listening to it. But Stamets has saved their hides before. He’s weird, and something is definitely wrong in his head, but he’s still trustworthy to a fault.

She searches his eyes for something, anything to help explain what he’s been saying this whole time. Unfortunately, she only sees the increase in clarity that indicates he’s coming back to his senses.

“The jump was successful?” His voice rings clear now. Sylvia snaps back into duty mode.

“No. We didn’t get to the Destiny.”

“Right. I didn’t take us to the Aldebaran system. We were too late. The Destiny was already... destroyed.”

“So where are we?”

“Somewhere.” He furrows his brow, flicks his eyes from place to place, then stands up too quickly and leans against the wall for balance. “The spores, they’re, it was a strain on them. I pulled her out of another time, and that's, like, really hard. We need to check on them.”

She grabs his arm, helps stabilize him as they walk across the laboratory to the spore chamber. He presses his palm to the scanner, reads his entry code, and the door opens. When he gets inside, Stamets falls to his knees, too shocked to cry out. The spores are still there, and alive, but they’re so very sparse. Where before the room had been teeming with life, now only a handful of specks remain.

Tilly isn’t certain what this means, but she can guess. They need more spores to make a successful jump. Until then, they’re stuck in uncharted territory, dozens of light years from the Federation in the wrong direction. They just picked up an alien of a completely unknown species. They won't be able to go home until they replenish their spore supply. And Paul Stamets is insisting the fate of the quadrant hangs in the balance.

This is by far the most exciting mission Sylvia’s been on yet.


	2. Bajor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorca debriefs Stamets, and opens relations with the planet below.

Captain Lorca is angry. He paces back and forth on the bridge, each step silent but heavy. Stamets stares at him from just inside the doorway. Lorca certainly heard the door close; his vision may be poor, but his hearing is astute as anyone’s. So the fact that he chooses not to respond to Stamets’ presence, even after having called him to the bridge, means he’s thinking things over yet.

Stamets has been on the Discovery long enough that he knows not to interrupt, much as he might want to. So he stands there, wishing he could take a towel to his still dripping hair and change into a dry uniform already. He carefully breathes – in for four counts, hold for four, out for four – and he tries not to scream because right now he needs nothing more than a shower and a nap, and a debriefing is about as far from that as he can get.

Finally, Lorca speaks.

“Lieutenant Stamets. We are not at our rendezvous coordinates with the Destiny. Why?”

Paul swallows, considering his words. “The Destiny was already destroyed, sir. There was no rendezvous to make.”

“Why, then, are we on the other side of the quadrant?”

“The starship Destiny might not be there, but our destiny exists here. We’re the only ship that could save the daughter of light from certain death. Dr. Culber is tending to her now. The fate of the galaxy lies with her.”

“I didn’t ask you to play hero in some made up mumbo-jumbo prophecy, Stamets. If you picked up an alien hitchhiker, so be it. If Lieutenant Tyler determines she’s not a threat, you can figure out what to do with her to ‘save the galaxy’, as long as it doesn’t get in our way.” He pauses for a too-long moment. “But first, I need you to prepare to make a jump back to Earth.”

“That won’t be possible.”

“Excuse me?”

“Our stock of spores, they’re… gone.”

“Where?”

“Each jump consumes some, but it’s normally negligible compared to their growth rate. This jump was particularly hard on them, which I should have known before I pulled her into our time. We’re down 99.3 percent. That doesn’t leave us enough to keep up the growth rate, nor enough to accurately patch in to the mycelial network. If we tried to jump again, it would kill the few we have left, and we couldn’t guarantee where we’d be going, or even if we would come out alive.”

Lorca’s hands are folded and his dark eyes burn as he glares at Stamets. “Great, so we can’t jump, and there’s some half dead alien girl on board. How long will the spores take to grow back?”

“Weeks. Maybe months. Unless we can find a natural supply to replenish ours. I shouldn’t have messed with the time stream.”

“I guess we’re finding a natural supply then. Lieutenant Detmer, how long until you can get long-range scans for compatible fungi?”

Detmer presses a button. Her console beeps, then she taps a few more. “One and a half hours, but, sir, this system is inhabited. The eleventh planet is class M, and,” another beep, “there are satellites in orbit consistent with a spacefaring civilization.”

Lorca curses under his breath. “Get us out of range before you start the scan, then. We’re not here to be diplomats.”

“It’s too late. They’re hailing us.”

Lorca straightens his uniform and walks to the center of the bridge. “Put them on screen.”

The viewport flickers, and is filled with the image of a room richly decorated in brown and green. Inside, three robed figures face the bridge crew of the Discovery. They look human except for the ridges on their noses and the chain earrings they each wear on their right ear.

The one on the left, a middle-aged woman with sandy hair pinned in a bun above her head, speaks first. “Unidentified vessel, you are trespassing in Bajoran space. Identify yourself.”

“I am captain Gabriel Lorca of the Federation starship Discovery. We arrived here by accident.” He pauses to shoot a glare at Stamets before continuing, “we would not have trespassed, had we known this system was your territory. As it is, we would like to introduce ourselves on the behalf of the United Federation of Planets, that our peoples may open diplomatic relations and, uh, then we’ll be on our way.”

“Well, Captain Gabriel,” she replies, sneering slightly, eyes harsh. “If you seek diplomatic relations, why is your ship so heavily armed?”

“Our people are at war. Perhaps you know of the Klingon tribes.”

“We do not. Where do you come from? Perhaps we know them by a different name.”

Lorca turns and nods at Saru, who pulls up a holographic star chart. He presses some more buttons.

“This system is our capital,” Saru explains, pointing to a star near the center. It glows blue. He presses another button, and a swath of space is tinged blue. “This is the extent of Federation territory.” Another button, and a star near the edge of the map glows green. “This is your star system. We are well outside the realm of territory we have explored, as you can see.”

“And your enemies? These… Klingons?”

Saru presses a few more buttons on his console. A swath of space glows red, nearly on the opposite side of the Federation. “This is the territory they control. They’re remote to this region of space, it would seem, but their houses were believed to have scattered far and wide, until they reunited and declared war on us less than a year ago.” His eyes flicker briefly to Specialist Burnham, who sits at her console, unflinching.

The man in the center of the three stands, leaning forward, pressing his fingertips on the table at which he was sitting. “We have yet to introduce ourselves, I realize. I am King Machys. You already heard from Prime Minister Inaar, and the man to my right is Kai Leda, our spiritual leader.” The other figures each raise a hand to their cheek as their names are given. It appears to be some sort of friendly gesture.

Several seconds pass before Lorca realizes he’s expected to do the same. “As you know, I am Captain Gabriel Lorca. This,” he turns to the Kelpian, who bows his head respectfully, “is my first officer, Commander Saru.” He gestures to Stamets to join him. A few seconds pass before the lieutenant obeys. “This is Lieutenant Stamets, my chief engineer. He’s responsible for the navigational glitch that brought us here.”

Stamets shoots a glare at Lorca as soon as his head is turned, then waves halfheartedly at the viewscreen.

King Machys folds his arms across his chest. “Captain Gabriel. We mean you no harm, but we are at war, much as you are, and your vessel is rather heavily armed. As a show of goodwill, we would like to invite you and your main advisors to our fifth moon, where we can discuss the situation in more detail and confirm that you are not our enemy.”

“Very well. Send me coordinates, and I can be there within the hour.”

“Meet us at these coordinates in two hours. Be unarmed.”

The screen fizzles out, and the viewscreen appears again as a window to the planet below. Lorca turns to Detmer. “Lieutenant, any news on the spore search?”

“I don’t see anything in this system. I’ll continue to run scans, but I believe the Bajorans may have more useful information in that regard.”

“Very well. Continue searching. Saru, Tyler, you’re with me.” Lorca sighs and turns to face Stamets. “Stamets, you’re dismissed. Report to my ready room at 0700 tomorrow, and be ready to start on the spore problem. And,” he pauses before continuing, “dry off before you step on the bridge next time.”

Stamets can’t get out fast enough.


	3. Ziyal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The alien girl wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for that gay shit? Because I am.

When Sylvia reaches sickbay, Dr. Culber is nowhere to be seen.

“How’s the patient?” Sylvia asks Nurse Retak, the short Vulcan woman who’s attending to the mysterious alien girl.

“We were able to stabilize her, to the best of our knowledge. It’s really fortunate that all humanoids have such similar physiology, because I haven’t the slightest clue what’s going on with her otherwise. If you’re not busy, she’ll be waking up any minute now, and I understand you were there when she was brought on board.”

“Yes, of course. I’d love to meet her, but are you sure I’m qualified? This is, like, _such_ a big deal, and I don’t have any first contact experience and I’m not even an officer. I don’t want to screw it up.”

“I will send for Counselor Fields as soon as he’s available, but you’re the one who understands her situation the best. Plus, you’re young and female, so, by all accounts, less likely to intimidate her.”

“What about Lieutenant Stamets? He’s the one who brought her here.”

Hugh Culber’s voice resonates from behind Sylvia. She hadn’t noticed him walk in. “Paul isn’t in much of a state to make introductions to anyone, lately.”

“Doctor Culber.” Nurse Retak motions for Sylvia to move out of the way, then continues. “Her internal bleeding has been stopped and her organ functions are within normal parameters for the generalized humanoid template, though I cannot speculate as to what that means for her particular species. Neural activity appears to be returning to a normal state since we started her on the linesterol drip. She should regain consciousness shortly, but I cannot vouch for her mental clarity when that time comes. I suggested Cadet Tilly remain here; as the victim is a young female, she may find her to be less threatening than either of us.”

“Thank you, nurse.”

Nurse Retak nods and soundlessly slips away, then Culber turns to Sylvia.

“Are you okay with this? You’re welcome to leave, but you and I were there when she was brought on board, so I’d like to have you here.”

“I’d like that!” Sylvia beams at him. She’s dreamed of this since she first decided to join Starfleet.

“Did Paul say anything useful about her? How did she get here?”

Sylvia grimaces, tries to make a cohesive statement out of Stamets’ incoherent babbling. “Well, he didn’t really say who she is. He said she’s the king’s weakness, and that we need her to prevent the Dominion, whatever that is, from destroying us. I think he said she isn’t from our universe. Or maybe our time stream? I mostly just recall him saying a lot about us dying.”

Dr. Culber furrows his brow and crosses his arms. “That’s ominous, even for him.”

“Yeah. Do you think it’s real?”

“I don’t know. Most of his episodes have been relatively banal. I don’t think we have enough information to know what to make of this one.”

They both stare at the alien girl. She has been changed into standard Starfleet hospital attire, consisting of a plain white tunic and pants. Her face might be that of a classical European beauty with her upturned nose, slim jaw, and rounded cheeks – if she weren’t so distinctly alien. Her neck appears to flare out, exaggerated trapezius marked into sections, each designated by a thin scale. Similar scaled ridges replace her eyebrows, and extend up from the center of each brow to her high hairline. Her hair is coarse, jet black, pulled into a low ponytail. Between the two ridges on her forehead is a slightly raised outline of a teardrop, which points down and terminates at a series of fine ridges across her nose. The overall impression is alien, disconcerting, mildly menacing.

Sylvia remembers the first time she met a Tellarite. It was in first-year quantum mechanics at Starfleet academy. He had sat right next to her in the lecture hall, and she was scared half to death. That lasted about a day; before she knew it, they had become fast friends. He was rather shy, but had a heart of gold. He’d used his intimidating bulk to save Sylvia more than her fair share of times when her mouth promised to get her into trouble. And he’d shown her never to judge a book by its cover.

 _Even the scariest aliens are no different than us,_ Sylvia mouthed to herself. First contact is about brushing aside your trepidation, about wholeheartedly seizing the opportunity for friendly relations. There’s no room for prejudice.

Sylvia folds her hands, moves to stand by the head of the bed. “When will she wake up?”

“Her condition has been stable for the past several minutes, so I’m going to try to wake her now.” Culber presses a hypospray to her neck. The soft hiss of inoprovaline flooding the girl’s system makes Sylvia’s skin crawl, but she tries to school her features, and even manages a slight smile.

The girl’s eyes flutter. “Father?” she mutters, and her voice is like Tholian silk.

Sylvia meets Culber’s eyes, asking. He nods, and she speaks. “Sorry, your father isn’t here.”

The girl’s eyes shoot open. She tries to sit up, but Culber’s hand on her shoulder presses her down. She reluctantly remains supine, satisfying herself with darting her eyes around the strange white and silver environment she finds herself in.

“Where am I? Where is my father?”

“You’re in the medical bay on the Federation starship Discovery. You were dying, and Dr. Culber here saved your life. We don’t know where your father is. I mean, we don’t even know who you are, and how you got here is also sort of unclear to us.”

The girl’s eyes light up. “You said this is a Federation ship? So, you broke the blockade? Did we succeed at protecting the wormhole?”

Sylvia glances at Culber. His eyebrows are raised at the girl. Nothing she is saying makes any sense, and Sylvia feels distinctly unprepared.

“We’re going to have a lot of catching up to do.” Sylvia lets out a shaky laugh, and tries to gather her wits and project confidence that she doesn’t feel. “Let’s start simple. What’s your name?”

The girl hesitates, but tentatively speaks. “Tora Ziyal.”

“Do you prefer if I call you Miss Ziyal, or Tora, or something else?”

“Tora is my family name, in the Bajoran tradition. You can just call me Ziyal.”

“Bajoran – from Bajor? That’s the planet we’re orbiting now, right?” Culber nods, and Sylvia continues. “You’re Bajoran, then?”

“My mother was Bajoran. My father’s Cardassian, but I’m sure that’s obvious.”

“Cardassian. Are they also native to this planet?”

Ziyal laughs, and it sounds like wind chimes. “Goodness, no. Cardassia is a few light years away.”

“Sorry if I’m confused, it’s just that no Federation starship has come anywhere near this sector before. We haven’t even heard of any of these peoples or their politics, and would greatly appreciate if you would help walk us through the situation once you’re recovered.”

Ziyal stares at her for a heavy moment, then speaks slowly. “I’ll do what I can. What happened to me? I remember my father… I was… shot.”

Sylvia shrugs, and nods to Dr. Culber.

“Your injuries are consistent with a phaser blast set to low kill. You said your father shot you?”

“No, he would never. I _was_ fighting him, but he would never shoot me. I’m the only family he has left.” Ziyal’s eyes widen. Her body shakes, as does her voice. “He loves me. Just because I didn’t want to go back to Cardassia with him, that doesn’t mean– He wouldn’t–!”

Ziyal’s voice catches in her throat. Her eyes close, and a tear falls out the corner of her eye, settling in the orbital ridge. Sylvia has to keep herself from instinctually wiping it away with her sleeve. She doesn’t know what to say, but her heart is already breaking. This girl – Ziyal – is so gentle, even when she was just pulled back from the cusp of death. She was nearly killed, and her first instinct is to defend her probable murderer. Sylvia has to get through to her, has to figure out what happened. She knows with absolute certainty that whatever she does now, she needs to protect this innocent girl. If this is what being a captain is like, she already hates it, hates the compulsive feeling of responsibility that twists her stomach into knots, and yet it comes to her as naturally as breathing.

Offering her a hug, or holding her hand, is out of the question. Who are they to say what an unknown culture might take offense at? And yet, Culber is Ziyal’s doctor, and it’s just the three of them in the curtained off alcove. Sylvia wants—no, needs—to offer some comfort. She’s the only person present in any position to give it.

“Hey.” Sylvia puts on her best brave smile and forces herself to meet Ziyal’s grey eyes, still glistening with tears. “We didn’t mean to accuse anyone of anything. Neither of us have the slightest clue what happened to you, but we _do_ care about you and want you to be safe. We’ll try everything within our power to figure out what happened, and to get you back home, I promise. But right now, you need to get some rest and focus on getting better.”

“I don’t want to rest. I want my father.”

Sylvia sits in a chair by Ziyal’s bed, leans forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands.

“I know. I’m sorry there isn’t more we can do right now.”

“You don’t know where he is, do you?”

“We don’t even know who he is.”

Ziyal screws her face into a pout, and Sylvia watches her. Long moments pass before Dr. Culber interrupts.

“Do you think you two will be alright for a while? I have another patient I need to check on.”

Sylvia pushes herself up from the chair. “Actually, I was just going to leave and let Ziyal rest.”                                                                                        

“I’m not tired,” Ziyal is quick to add. “That is, if you want to stay.”

Sylvia beams. People have said they didn’t mind her, but for someone to actually ask her to stay? That’s always something special. She claps her hands together, and nods, and starts to jump before she catches herself, sits back in the chair, tucks her hands under her thighs.

“I’d love to stay. Thanks, doc.” Culber slips out, and Sylvia turns her attention to Ziyal. “So, what do you do?”

“I’m an artist. Well, I’m still in school, and I had to go on leave because of the war, but I plan to be an artist one day. You?”

“I’m a captain. Well, I’m still a cadet, but I’m going to be, one day.”

“You’d make a good one, I think.”

Like being asked to stay, it isn’t a comment Sylvia hears often. She’s speechless, and her face feels hot. Ziyal lies back, folds her hands over her stomach, stares at the ceiling thoughtfully.

“You know,” Ziyal begins, “That doctor really is something. He’s so… tense.”

“Lieutenant Stamets – Dr. Culber’s boyfriend – is going through a lot. He’s the one who brought you on board, you know.”

“Shouldn’t have bothered with me, if I’ve just caused more trouble.”

“He thinks you’re important. I happen to agree.”

Ziyal smiles, so softly Sylvia thinks she might melt. Sylvia can’t help but return the expression.

“Will I get to meet him?”

“I hope so. I don’t think we’ll be able to return you home for a while. I’m still not entirely sure how you got here in the first place, but I think it messed up our, um, navigation system. You’ll probably be stuck here for a while.”

“My father must be so worried. My friends must be so worried. I wish I could let them know I’m okay.”

Sylvia turns her head, estimates there’s nobody nearby, and scoots her chair closer to the bed so her voice can drop to just above a whisper. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Ziyal leans in and nods.

“I haven’t been debriefed yet, but I don’t think you’re from our time. So, if we get you home, we _should_ be able to drop you right back at the moment we took you from. Nobody will need to know you were gone.”

“I’ll know I was gone.”

“So will all of us. If we’re lucky, that won’t pollute the timeline too much, and you’ll get back to the timeline you remember, when it’s over.”

“Out of curiosity, what year is it?” When Sylvia hesitates, Ziyal offers, “let’s both say it, on three. Three, two, one…”

“2256.”

“2374.”

Sylvia is first to break the ensuing awkward silence. “118 years. I’ll probably be dead by the time you’re born.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“I bet your world is so different.”

“From the little bit I’ve seen of yours, it’s mostly the same. People are still people.”

“Yeah, but imagine the technology. I bet every ship has a spore drive in the 24th century.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.” That’s classified technology, Sylvia. Even if she’s from the future, you still aren’t allowed to tell her. Better change the subject before she gets a chance to ask questions.

“Have you ever been to Earth?”

“No. I was born on Bajor, and I lived on Cardassia for a while. Only other planet I’ve been to is Dozaria, and that’s not somewhere I like to think about.”

“What’s Bajor like?”

“The countryside is so beautiful. I once spent a week in the Dakeen monastery, doing studies of the monks and the gardens and the architecture. It’s really a sight to be seen, green and brown and beautiful. And the cliffs of Undalar, mid-autumn, when the fungi bloom every color of the rainbow—it’s a sight to behold. I miss it, really. I feel like I’ve been stuck in space ever since the war broke out.”

“Remind me to show you our fungal stores. We harvested them recently, but when they grow back, they’re quite the sight to behold.”

Ziyal smiles, and lies back. “I’d like that,” she says, and that’s enough.

The two girls sit in companionable silence. Sylvia is concerned with her debriefing, the classified intel she shared with Ziyal, the fact that Ziyal is from _118 years in the future_.

And then there’s the fact that Ziyal is so beautiful. Her face is delicate but regal, and she speaks with the poise of a queen. Sylvia idly wonders what it would be like to braid her hair, to draw patterns on her slender body. She wants to know how Ziyal’s body moves, how the scales around her eyes feel to the touch. Wants to dance in the mess hall after hours, to share stories of their childhoods, to gaze out a viewport at the stars and try to tell which is which. All the little romantic things she’s dreamed of…

Sylvia laughs to herself.

“What?”

She aimlessly waves a hand in Ziyal’s direction. “It’s nothing.”

Ziyal sits up, props herself up on her elbows, grins mischievously. “It’s not nothing. Why don’t you tell me?”

Sylvia sighs, flicks her eyes to the ceiling, looks at Ziyal’s face, rests her gaze on the floor. “You said you’re an artist.”

“Yeah?”

“Not a musician.”

“I could be,” was Ziyal’s lilting retort.

Sylvia’s face is redder than her hair, she’s certain of it. But she makes herself meet Ziyal’s eyes anyway. The strange, beautiful alien girl is smiling, glowing even. Sylvia lets a small giggle slip, and then they’re both laughing helplessly, hysterically. For a minute they forget that they’re in a hospital room, that they’re on a warship in unknown territory, that Ziyal just nearly died.

Sylvia leans on the edge of the bed, and Ziyal grabs her arm, and they laugh, and laugh. For the time being, everything is perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MIGHT be living vicariously through Sylvia. Just maybe. A teensy tiny bit. 
> 
> I just ran a quick spelling and grammar check, but didn't even proofread this. I welcome you to poke as many holes as you can in my writing. I have a thick skin; roast me, and I'll love you for it.
> 
> MIGHT be dialing it back on the daily updates for the time being. Thanksgiving break is about to end and this chapter kinda burnt me out. Chapter 4 is scheduled for "within a week".


	4. Nonlinear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s dinner time. There’s a lot to think about. Paul, Sylvia, Ziyal – they’re all going through a lot of stuff that doesn’t really make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stellar cartography aside: I’m using the layout I’ve seen in most maps of the Star Trek universe, in which Earth and the Federation are on the alpha-beta quadrant axis; Cardassia, Bajor, the Breen, and the Ferengi are in the alpha quadrant; and the Klingons and Romulans as well as a medley of smaller powers are in the Beta quadrant. This is in explicit contrast to alpha canon: Deep Space Nine and Voyager refer to all of the above powers being located in the Alpha quadrant.
> 
> tl;dr: our heroes are the alpha AND beta quadrants in this fic, not just alpha.

“Computer, time.”

“The time is 1740 hours.”

Paul Stamets groans, rolls over, stretches his arms and legs. He’s napped for three hours, but hardly feels any more rested. The space next to him in bed is empty, but that’s to be expected mid-day. Unlike him, Hugh Culber is a normal person, holding down as close to a 9-to-5 as anyone can in space.

“You decided to wake up,” Hugh teases, voice raised so it carries from the living room.

Paul opens his eyes, sits up to look through the open doorway. His boyfriend is sitting at the couch, sipping from a mug of something. Denobulan fire tea, probably. He knows Paul can’t stand the smell, no matter how much he loves the stuff.

Paul gives his boyfriend a lazy smile as he pushes the blankets off himself. “Morning, handsome.” And he really is. The clean white of his uniform sets off the bronze of his skin, makes him look regal. His eyes crinkle at the edges as he watches Paul fuss with his hair. The look he’s giving him is warm, even warmer than the tea whose sickly smell is just reaching Paul’s nose.

Hugh puts the padd he’s reading on the side table next to his tea. “Morning. It’s six in the afternoon.”

“So it is. Have you had dinner?” Paul gets up, walks to the replicator. “Water, 15 degrees.” The cup materializes, and Paul carries it to sit next to Hugh on the couch.

“I was waiting for you.” Hugh adjusts his seating, turning to face Paul. “After what happened earlier, well, I was worried. You and Tilly managed alright, it seems. She stopped by sick bay a couple hours later, to check on the girl you picked up.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s stable. Doing really well, actually. She’s still under observation, but I managed to get her guest quarters.”

Paul hums noncommitally, rotates the glass of water slowly in his hands.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

Paul shrugs. “This star system seems to be a hub in the mycelial network. The fibers are denser here. I felt a presence of sorts, calling me. I tried to argue, but it showed me the wreckage of the Destiny. And it… took over? It was like someone else stepped into my mind, did… whatever they did, and then left. I remember pulling her out of another… another world, I guess. But I couldn’t tell you why, or who she is, or where we are now. I just had to do it.”

“We had a preliminary debriefing this afternoon. That is, except you and Ziyal, who were indisposed.”

Paul’s brow furrows. “Ziyal?”

“Turns out the alien girl you picked up has a name. Tilly talked with her for about an hour. She’s half Bajoran – that’s the planet we’re orbiting – and half Cardassian – that’s the nearby empire Bajor is at war with. She’s also from, oh, a century in the future.”

Paul takes a slow sip of water, waiting for Hugh to elaborate. He doesn’t.

“Tilly also said that after the jump, you were very concerned with Ziyal. Apparently you vehemently insisted she was essential to the fate of the quadrant.”

Paul scoffs, but internally he is shaken. He remembers flashes of visions, horrible visions of unprecedented death and darkness. He remembers saying things, remembers a fleeting feeling of absolute certainty that they were true. He remembers his heart racing, feeling frantic because he’s afraid. But afraid of what? Who’s to say?

The ship’s counselor tries to help with Paul’s symptoms, but he’s so fixated on the past that he brushes off the role of the present in his current situation. Counselor Fields wasn’t any help when the symptoms started, and certainly won’t be any help now. Hugh is the only person on the ship who Paul can really talk to, the only person who always seems to understand what he’s really saying when he speaks.

“I’m sure she _said_ a lot of things.” Paul’s voice drips venom, but what he’s really saying is, _help me. Tell me I’m not crazy._

Hugh smiles fondly. They’ve been together for what, four years now? He knows the act, knows it _is_ just an act. “You said a lot of things, too. You were stressed.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it.”

Hugh puts an arm around Paul’s shoulders and the man positively sags into him. He’s exhausted. Hugh suddenly feels horribly guilty. His intent was to take Paul to dinner, not to interrogate him.

“Have you eaten today?”

Paul grimaces. “Does breakfast count?”

“Come on. You’re getting dressed, then we’re going to the mess hall. We don’t have to talk about this anymore until tomorrow morning’s debriefing.”

 

“There he is,” Sylvia whispers across the table at Michael, eyes gesturing to where Culber just entered the room with his boyfriend. “He was _really_ out of it earlier.”

Michael looks, then rolls her eyes at Sylvia. “You would be struggling too, if you had to use yourself as a human supercomputer.”

Sylvia blinks. “I wasn’t trying to say—! I’m just glad he’s feeling a bit better, okay? I’m seriously scared for him, especially since he’s refusing medical treatment, and he _definitely_ isn’t right in the head. You should have heard the sort of things he was saying after the jump. It was _eerie._ ”

“What kind of things?”

“I don’t know, it’s like – you know he picked up an alien girl from another timeline, right? – he was saying how he had to save her, couldn’t let her die, that she’s essential to the fate of the galaxy. _The king’s greatest weakness_ , I think he said. It didn’t really make sense, but, I have a feeling it’s going to. Something big is happening here.”

“Didn’t you just say that he ‘isn’t right in the head’?”

“Well, he isn’t.”

“How about the alien girl? Did she seem particularly _significant_ to you?”

“Not when you put it that way, but…”

Michael tilts her head, raises an eyebrow.

Sylvia looks around, hopes nobody’s listening, and leans in to whisper, “She’s from the future.”

“Really, Tilly? Time travel isn’t real. Odds are, she’s making it up.”

“No, for real, I have a theory. Remember the incident with Mudd and the gormagander?”

“How could I forget?”

“Yes, well, Lieutenant Stamets’, uh, his…” Sylvia silently mouths ‘augmentation,’ then resumes speaking aloud, “let him retain his memories from one loop to the next.”

“Because the tardigrades whose DNA he used have a non-linear relationship to time, unlike us.”

“Exactly. Well, what if that doesn’t apply just to the tardigrades, but to everything else in the mycelial plane, too? I think, given the context, it’s totally reasonable to assume that a nonlinear relationship with time would enable a user to interact with time streams other than their own.”

“It would have to be someone more experienced than Lieutenant Stamets and the Discovery.”

“Of course! But if the mycelia are sentient, and they have a vested interest in this girl’s survival, don’t you think, just maybe, they could use our ship to save her?”

“Tilly, you sound ridiculous.”

“I know, but listen, she’s important, okay? If what Paul says is true, she’s our only hope of saving the entire alpha and beta quadrants.”

“So you do think she’s important.”

“I don’t know! But, yes. She’s definitely important.” Sylvia picks at a fingernail, eager to look anywhere but at Michael. She suddenly feels too hot, too aware of the feeling of her uniform fabric against her body, of how tightly her hair is tied up. Her plate is still half full, but the food has suddenly lost all appeal.

When she does meet Michael’s eyes, she sees dawning understanding and amusement.

“You like her.”

“What? No. That’s absurd. I’m—she’s—"

“An alien?”

“That’s never mattered to me, and you know it.”

“A woman?”

“Well, no. Yes! I’m. I like guys, okay? Just because she’s sweet and clever and funny and has the most _beautiful_ smile, it doesn’t mean—”

Michael is smiling at her, knowingly, eyebrow raised.

Sylvia would never have feelings for a woman. If she did, Sylvia wouldn’t be her parents’ perfect daughter anymore. There isn’t much room in the world for less-than-perfect.  She takes a sip of water and frantically tries to think of a new subject.

“Your love life is more exciting than mine, by any means. How are things with Lieutenant Tyler going?”

“They’re fine. He’s sweet.”

Michael doesn’t want to change the topic quite so easily.

“Come on, you can do better than that. Are you two official? It’s been a few weeks and I still don’t even know if you’re technically dating.”

“Dating would imply we go on dates, and that isn’t exactly possible on a starship. We might have plans to spend some quality time together next time we dock for shore leave. In the meanwhile, we’re both dealing with a lot, and neither of us is in any particular hurry to make things official.”

“Oh, speak of the devil!”

Sylvia waves at Ash, who walks over to join them. Sylvia wiggles her eyebrows at Michael, mutters a quick, “I think I’m done eating, I have to go check on something,” and leaves an exasperated Michael to the alone time she so very much deserves.

 

“These are your quarters, miss. You can ask the replicator for any items you need.”

“Thank you,” Ziyal says as the door closes and the security officer walks away.

First step, a shower. She replicates herself a set of nightclothes, holds them up against herself to check that the size is approximately right. She hates the cloying chemical smell of freshly replicated fabric, but it’s not like she has another recourse. Maybe the smell will dissipate while she’s in the shower, along with the stench that clung to her body from the attack.

Upon entering the bathroom, she finds another problem. Her quarters aren’t equipped with sonic showers. It’s fair, she guesses, to assume the technology wasn’t invented yet. But she’s never showered with water before. On Dozaria and Cardassia, clean water was in too high a demand to waste on ablution. On Bajor it’s traditional to clean oneself in a sonic shower before entering a bath, and water showers are considered comparatively damaging to the _pagh_.

Ziyal isn’t worried about her own _pagh_. Being Dukat’s daughter is damaging enough to it already. So she steps in, presses the button to turn on the water. Adjusts it to its hottest setting, where it _just_ begins to sting. Scrubs her body unforgivingly, like she did when she tried to scour the grey out of her skin as a child.

Maybe it’ll be enough to wash away her sins.

Ziyal dries herself off, dresses. The stench is mostly gone, and the clothes are tolerable now, but the filthy feeling remains. She deserved to die when she was shot. She knows it. Her father knows it. On Cardassia, family is everything, and she betrayed hers.

But in Bajoran custom, family isn’t just your blood, but also the people for whom you would shed blood. Family is the people whose paths are crossed with yours in the prophets’ grand plan. And there are so many people who would stand to lose everything if the Dominion-Cardassian alliance were to win the war. Kira. Garak. Leeta. Rom. Jake. Her professors and sponsors in the university on Bajor. The entire alpha and beta quadrants. For all she shouldn’t care, she can’t bring herself to dismiss nearly a quadrillion living, breathing people as ‘other’, as ‘less than’. She couldn’t being herself to support the kind of life they would live under Dominion or Cardassian rule, not then and not now. Not when the memories and hardships of the labor camp on Dozaria are still fresh in her head. Not when she’s lived under the Federation for long enough to know there is a better way.

Ziyal frowns at the mirror, too covered with condensation from the steam to show her reflection. Wipes it away with a towel, stares into her own eyes as she brushes her teeth, tries to discern what there even is to say about the soul underneath.

She sided with Major Kira, and Bajor, and the Federation-Klingon alliance. She is guilty. She knows this beyond a doubt. And yet where she wishes to feel a criminal’s regret, a sinner’s penance, she only feels the sick, cold certainty that she isn’t sorry, that she would do it again.

She rubs her eyes as she leaves the restroom. Yawns. She’s done so little today, and yet finds herself exhausted. She wants nothing more than to rest, so she can at least have energy to face the trials tomorrow would surely bring. She lies down, tosses and turns and tries to tell herself she’ll have half a chance to fix anything.

She still committed treason, against her people, against the only family she has. And treason demands one recompense: death. In a sense, she supposes she is dead to them. Maybe they assumed she was disintegrated by the phaser blast, and so there wasn’t even a body left to find. Maybe this life, the little pieces she may manage to scrape together a century before her birth, is all she has left.

It isn’t an encouraging thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 will be up before the end of the weekend!


	5. The Bajoran-Cardassian War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew discusses plans to get home.

When Sylvia wakes up, Michael is sitting at her desk, reading from a padd and sipping from a cup of tea. Sylvia dresses quietly, and tries to slip out without disturbing her. She’s probably rereading the Shenzhou logs. She does that most mornings.

Sylvia looks back at Michael as she slips through the door. Michael meets her eyes briefly, then the door slips shut, and Sylvia finds herself walking a little too quickly down the hall.

She passes the guest quarters on the way to the mess hall, and finds herself stopping. A digital panel next to one door reads “Tora Ziyal, unknown affiliation”. It is wartime, and the Discovery is not a diplomatic vessel. The other doors’ panels are empty.

Sylvia was restless all night, haunted by dreams of their mysterious alien passenger. Ziyal, crying over an unmarked grave of sand in front of a crimson sky. Dozaria. Teenage years lost to a labor camp when she should have been free, spent in caves and sand when she should have known gardens and sunlight. Ziyal, who knew too much of darkness and only used it as impetus to love. Ziyal, who would know too much more of darkness before the war ends.

Sylvia lets her fingertips brush against the door sign. The panel lights up and chimes, extending a list of menu options. Sylvia jumps, managing not to shriek with surprise, and presses cancel. She lets her fingertips brush against the door instead.

She hadn’t understood what Stamets meant when he referred to Ziyal as a daughter of light, but she fancies she does now. Ziyal shines, brilliantly, like a searchlight into the uncaring void of space. Sylvia could tell that much from one conversation. She can tell Ziyal is special, and knows beyond doubt she is fortunate to meet her.

Sylvia wants to see her again.

Ziyal, who caught herself in the middle of two interstellar conflicts. Ziyal, who Stamets referred to as “the king’s greatest weakness”. Ziyal, on whose shoulders rests the fate of the galaxy. She is only Sylvia’s age, and yet Sylvia cannot begin to fathom what it would mean to be caught in her position. Sylvia, who had lived life well even by Federation standards, with an intact family who love her dearly and treat her well. Sylvia, who had never gone a day without shelter over her head or food to eat or the accoutrements of modern living.

Before she leaves, she taps out a quick message on the door panel, asking Ziyal to meet her for lunch later. She suspects Ziyal could use a friend, now more than ever. The rest of the crew extend their typical Federation sympathy, but they’re suspicious. Maybe it isn’t with the purest of intentions, but Sylvia wants to let Ziyal know she isn’t alone.

In the mess hall, Sylvia orders a concentrated nutrition pack. She needs energy for the debriefing, but her stomach is too queasy to eat real food. All she can think of is Ziyal’s quiet patience, acknowledgement of Sylvia’s hopes and fears and dreams as equal to her own. All she can think of is how much it _means_ to her, how she knows she needs to stand up for Ziyal at any cost.

 

Sylvia arrives at the debriefing nearly three minutes late, having lost track of time in her reverie. The room is silent and dimly lit. Lorca sits at the head of the conference table, chair swiveled to face the wall. Lieutenants Tyler and Stamets sit on one side of the table. Saru and Culber are on the other side. Sylvia takes an empty seat near the empty end of the table, next to Stamets. He glowers at her. This is normal.

Sylvia is by far the lowest ranked person present. Normally she wouldn’t even be invited to such a meeting, but she is the only person who can vouch for Stamets’ condition after the jump. She is one of the only people Ziyal spoke to. She _knows_ things. She matters here, and that makes her tense. So, she sits a little too straight, rehearses the previous day’s events a little too frantically, counts the seconds before the meeting begins.

Finally, another minute later, Lorca clears his throat, swivels his chair to face the table. “Bajor isn’t able to provide us with the spores we need.”

A collective sigh is let out around the table. Lorca nods to Lieutenant Tyler.

Tyler steps to the console at the head of the table and presses a few buttons. A holographic map appears over the table, with a swath of space at one edge highlighted in red. “Bajor isn’t an imperial power in this sector. Their interstellar reach is small; in nearly a millennium of warp capability, they’ve only created about a dozen colonies, and a similar number of mining facilities. Luckily, Bajoran intel knows of several promising candidate worlds for natural _P. stellaviatori_ growths. Unfortunately,” he presses another button, and a large adjacent portion of the map is highlighted in blue. “They are member worlds of the Cardassian Union, an interstellar empire which has been fighting a war to try to annex Bajor for over a century now.”

Lorca speaks up. “We intend to make a deal with Cardassia to secure access to spores. If they’re not willing to cooperate, the plan is to do a short-range jump to avoid triggering any alarms, take the spores, and jump home. We’ve already been away from the front lines too long.”

“Captain,” Stamets interjects, “we don’t have an adequate spore supply to make even a small jump safely.”

“How long until we do?”

Stamets frowns, runs a set of mental calculations. “Five days, give or take, for a jump less than a parsec.”

“Then we have five days to achieve a diplomatic solution with Cardassia, unless anyone has another idea.”

None of the staff speak.

“Glad that’s settled. Now, there’s the matter of our mycelial hitchhiker. Lieutenant Stamets, you brought her here.”

“Technically I did bring her aboard,” Stamets replies, “but I couldn’t tell you exactly how or why. There was… another consciousness. In the mycelial plane. It’s what made me bring her here. It… knows. Captain, whoever that girl is, she’s important. The fate of the entire galaxy depends on her.”

Lorca squints at Stamets. “The fate of the galaxy?”

Stamets clenches his teeth, defiantly meets Lorca’s judgmental gaze. “I don’t know who she is, or why they brought her here. But she is extremely important, and as long as she’s here we have a duty to find out why she’s here and what she’s needed for.”

Lorca’s gaze doesn’t falter. “Because some mushroom entity told you so,” he says with a sneer.

Stamets tilts his head, furrows his brow. When he speaks his voice is harsh, defiant. “There’s a lot that we don’t know about the mycelial network. But given how the tardigrade communicated with it, and my own experiences communicating with it, it’s not unrealistic to assume that the mycelial network might be sentient. If so, it’s a lot older than us and absolutely knows things we don’t know.”

“They’re mushrooms, lieutenant. They can’t be sentient.”

“They aren’t like any mushrooms we know. This network is ancient, and extensive, and exists in an entirely different plane of existence than we do. Just because it isn’t humanoid doesn’t mean it isn’t a life form, and doesn’t mean we shouldn’t hear out what it has to say.”

Lorca lets out a breath, says nothing to Stamets, just moves just his eyes to look at Sylvia. “Cadet Tilly, you spoke with our new passenger. What exactly does she want from us?”

Sylvia shifts uncomfortably. She hadn’t expected to be put on the spot; she was told that Lieutenant Tyler’s interview with Ziyal was the only one of actual importance. Her voice cracks when she first speaks. “I-I don’t think she wants anything from us.” _They need to know what you know. Tell them what you know._ “According to her, Tora Ziyal – Tora is her family name, in the Bajoran custom – was brought into our timeline from the year 2374. I don’t think she had any say in the matter; she had just been shot when she materialized here. Either way, Starfleet temporal displacement policy demands that we return her to her own time and—"

“I’m well aware of Starfleet temporal displacement policy,” Lorca interrupts. “Mr. Stamets here seems to think she’s critical to the fate of the galaxy. I agree that her materializing here wasn’t an accident. Since she’s a Bajoran citizen, it sounds like the most prudent option is to leave her for the Bajoran government to deal with.”

Leaving her in Bajor’s hands might as well mean leaving her with an enemy. Sylvia can’t let them go through with this, and so she speaks up. “She’s half Cardassian. Hybrids like her have never been treated well—”

“I didn’t ask you, cadet.”

Sylvia bites her tongue, clenches her teeth. Military discipline. Respect the chain of command, no matter how awful that chain might be. “Right. Sorry, sir.”

Lorca sighs. “Lieutenant Stamets, exactly what you do with her is up to you, but I expect you to have her off our ship before we return home. Cadet Tilly, help him however you can.” He looks at the various faces around the table, then pushes off the table to stand up. “Dismissed. Saru, with me, please.”

Lorca and Saru walk out the forward door, toward the bridge. Tyler appears to be busy typing on his console. Stamets and Tilly stare at each other for a moment, then stand up and head to the aft door. Culber chases after Stamets, and manages to accost him at the door, so Sylvia walks alone to engineering to begin her duties for the day, letting her quick stride betray her unease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long - I had to restructure a lot of my plans for the story, and do some work on what it turns out was a very faulty character concept for Stamets. Hopefully I'll manage to post a couple more chapters before Discovery comes off hiatus. 
> 
> Happy new year! Let's hope 2018 brings wonderful things for all of us.

**Author's Note:**

> Created with Auroranym, who's writing a different version of the same idea.
> 
> I make playlists for all my fics, but it's a community effort. If there's a song this reminds you of or that you think fits, please drop it in the comments below!


End file.
